


tantsy na l'du

by seijoh



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Character Study, Coming Out, Depression, Family Bonding, Gen, Minor Character Death, Russian terms of endearment, Self-Hatred, abuse of parenthesis, gays being gay, i wrote this while blasting history maker for 22 hours straight, intentional repetition, lesbian mila, parental neglect, the ages might be wrong because i can’t math lmao, trust me this is quality writing right here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-09-30 19:13:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10169912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seijoh/pseuds/seijoh
Summary: we call everything on the ice “love.”or, a viktor nikiforov character study.





	

**Author's Note:**

> tantsy na l'du = "ice dancing" in russian
> 
> hello and welcome to what i have called "6k of viktor angst" pls enjoy ur stay
> 
> \--> written for someone's birthday

The day Viktor Nikiforov is born, St. Petersburg is blanketed in a thick coat of snow. It is Christmas day, and his mother spends it in a hospital in labor while his father takes a business call outside of the room. In between, he occasionally steps in to hold his wife’s hand, but every time his phone vibrates, he leaves without fail. It has always been _work first, family second_ with Petyr Nikiforov and that will never change.

Viktor learns how to skate a little over a week after he learns how to walk. Natalya Nikiforov is a skater too, after all, and she loves the ice more than she loves her husband. She is grace personified—as elegant and cold as a Russian winter. On the ice, she is no different, and she is beautiful. Natalya has many talents, but she had been a desired spouse for her money rather than anything she could do. (She is a trophy wife, nothing more and nothing less, but Natalya has never been one to sit idly by. Nikiforovs are old money, and there is nothing the patriarchy hates more than a woman with thoughts.)

“Listen closely,  _malen’kaya zvezda_ ,” Viktor’s mother says to him. “Her voice is warm and moves like honey, and he’s never heard it like this before. (But they are on the ice, and Natalya loves the ice.) “You must never let _anyone_ make your choices for you.”

Viktor carries that sentiment with him for the rest of his life. 

 

* * *

 

Viktor is seven, and he goes down stairs for a hot cocoa. Cold bites at his toes, and the pitter-patter of his footfalls on the steps sound like a soft drum. It is November now, and winter is taking residence in the city. If he looked outside, he’d see snow.

Viktor is seven, and he hears his father shouting in a mixed slur of Russian and broken English. His accent is more pronounced, and he smells of alcohol and sweat.

“ _Shlyukha_ ,” Peter spits out, swaying on his feet and a bottle of clear vodka clutched tightly in his left hand. _Whore._

Natalya is lying on the floor, clutching her cheek and glaring at her husband. The only thing that hints at her discomposure is her rumpled hair and the scarlet handprint on her face. Other than that, she sits with her back straight—graceful and proud to the very end.

“Mama?” he says. His voice sounds so small.

“Viktor.” She breathes his name like a whisper, and like ashes in the wind, her soft tone is quickly gone. “Go back upstairs.”

“Mama, what’s going on?” He takes a step forward.

“ _Go_ ,” she says. Her tone is strangely serious, and Viktor can’t deny her anything.

He listens, running up the stairs, and his cocoa is completely forgotten. Unable to sleep, Viktor sits on his bed, legs tangled underneath the blankets and neck propped up by his pillow. A few hours later, his eyes fall shut out of exhaustion.

“Wake up, _malen’kaya zvezda_ ,” Natalya whispers, gently shaking him awake. She holds out a backpack in her hands towards his direction, and there is another one slung over her shoulder. “We’re going to take a little trip.”

It is a trip that lasts for the rest of his life.

 

* * *

 

Viktor knows his parents are rich. In some corner in the back of his mind, he supposes he’s always known that fact. But his grandmother’s house is huge, even by Nikiforov standards. It’s white and tall and certainly _too much_ for an old woman in her sixties, even if said old woman has too much money than she knows what to do with.

“Are you ready to see your _babushka_?” his mother asks, wrapped in a fur coat. She’d said on the train ride that Averyanov Manor was where she’d grown up. (Viktor had never known his cousins, as his mother had barely even known her brother. Uncle Maksim, twelve years older than Natalya, had always been out of the house, and now he lived in Germany. That single fact on its own greatly decreased the probability of stumbling across the man.)

Viktor nods his head, burying his face slightly into the warmth of the scarf wrapped around his neck.

It is a woman who opens the door, her face emotionless but her eyes shining with love. He sees a lot of his mother in this woman. “Viktor, you’ve grown since I’ve seen you last.” When Babushka turns to Natalya, he swears that he’d heard her voice crack. “ _Solntse tantsor_ _._ You’re home…”

“ _Mamochka_.” Natalya rushes forward to hug her mother, though it is Babushka who wraps her arms around her daughter. “I’ve missed you so much.”

“I never did like that man,” Babushka says. Viktor thinks it is an odd thing to say in lieu of greeting, but he slowly learns that Petra Averyanova is usually not one for saying especially emotional things.

 

* * *

 

“Stand up, _malen’kaya zvezda_ ,” Natalya says, standing near the edge of the rink in a pair of skates.

Eight-year-old Viktor sighs. “But Mama, I’ve tried to do this jump a thousand times. I _still_ can’t get it.

“Life is all about falling, Viktor.” She skates to him and holds out a single gloved hand with a soft smile on her face. “It’s about what you do next that decides what kind of person you are. Now, are you going to stand up and try again, or are you going to sit on the ice and complain?”

He takes her hand, gets up, and tries again. Viktor makes the jump.

 

* * *

 

At nine years old, Viktor wins his first tournament. It’s nothing major, just some small city-wide competition in Moscow, but it feels like so much more. The medal around his neck is only gold-painted plastic, but Viktor can’t help but crave the high the satisfaction that winning gives him.

He wants _more_.

He starts coaching with Yakov Feltsman a few months later.

 

* * *

 

“You’re good, Nikiforov, but not good enough,” Coach Yakov says, his mouth a thin line. He’d told Natalya to stop watching their practices almost a month ago. “Keep practicing, or these local competitions will be the  _only_ thing you win.”

Yakov doesn’t have to tell Viktor; he already knows—knows he’s not good enough, but he will be. He _will_ be good enough, because Averyanovs don’t lose, and at this point, he’s more Averyanov than he will ever be Nikiforov. He  _will_ be good enough, because he years for the feeling of standing on a podium like nothing else. He wants it more than he’s wanted anything in his entire life.

Viktor nodes and moves into starting position once again.

 

* * *

 

School is school, which means that he would rather be in hell than this stuffy classroom with a strict teacher who wasn’t being paid enough to deal with middle school students. Even if they were _rich_ middle school students.

Despite the rarity of private schools in Russia, Babushka is a woman not to be trifled with when the care of her grandson is in question. She is strict but just, cold but gives hugs that can only be rivaled with his mother’s.

But it is in school that Viktor learns English. Or, _formally_ learns English. His mother has been teaching him English since he was six, which means that his marks are flawless. Not that they aren’t already excellent in and of themselves, but he’s never been the most brilliant student. English, however, is _easy_ because he already knows the material. He takes another language too—French—and soon, before his thirteenth birthday, he’s already fluent in at least three languages.

 

* * *

 

Viktor is fourteen, and he sits on a couch, studying his competition from the TV. His body tenses in anticipation. He’s the last one to go out, and he’s waiting with Yakov beside him. The skater onscreen is good, almost worryingly so, but he forces himself to breathe— _in and out_ . Viktor needs to stay calm, needs to focus himself on doing what he knows he can do instead of wishing his competitors did worse. Because he _knows_ that he has the capability to win, that he can do this.

It’s just a matter of simply accomplishing that fact.

A few minutes later, he glides onto the ice. Viktor prays to whatever god will listen to him that he will win. Natalya and Babushka are in the crowd, watching him. He refuses to have dragged them out of the house for a _loss_. He refuses to _disappoint_ them.

He is Viktor Nikiforov. His mother is Natalya Averyanova, who left her husband to protect her son. His grandmother is Petra Averyanova, who worked as the head of a company on her own after her husband died. He will _win_.

Viktor skates with a grim determination, becoming the very personification of his theme: greed. He is _oh so_ greedy for that medal, longing after the satisfaction it will bring and the smile it will put on his mother’s face. He wants the rare and precious praise from Babushka, wants to be able to say, “This was only my first season, and yet I’ve already won.” (Not that he _would_. It would be too much of a Petyr Nikiforov thing to do, and while Viktor has many aspirations, becoming like his father is not one of them.)

When he finally stops—when the _music_ finally stops and his FS is over—he is out of breath, but he feels more alive than he’s ever been. And once he sees the free skate score, Viktor’s heart stops as well: 123.92, skyrocketing him to first place combined with his short program.

_He’s done it._

His mother hugs him tightly, and Babushka gives him a grin. Yakov moves to place a hand on Viktor’s shoulder but doesn’t display any other affection. But Yakov looks proud— _proud of Viktor._

 

* * *

 

“And the young Russian skating prodigy Viktor Nikiforov wins yet _another_ championship! By this time next year, he’ll probably be at Worlds. Don’t you think so?”

“Definitely. Look out, universe. You’ve got a hurricane coming your way.”

 

* * *

 

“Viktor,” Natalya says, studying his self-choreographed free skate with rapt attention and watchful eyes. “That was amazing. And you wrote it yourself, _malen’kaya zvezda_?”

He nods, skating over to where she’s standing on the other side of the rink. “ _Da_.”

His mother falls silent, and her expression is thoughtful. Viktor knows she’s mentally reviewing the FS as a fellow skater critiquing his choreography and practice performance. She is Moscow’s _Led Tsvetok_ , the Ice Flower, who could have gone to Worlds had she only wanted it.

“Try adding a combination spin after the Salchow,” she says after a few long minutes of thinking. “And replace your last triple axel with a quad flip.”

“A _quad flip_?” The words fall out of his mouth in an incredulous tone, half-question and half-exclamation.

Natalya nods. “You can do it. I know you can.”

Viktor stares at the murky white ice, marred with the jarring cris-crosses of where he’d skated. The ice is all he’s ever known. He skates to the center of the rink, closes his eyes, and begins the routine again. In his mind, he can see the triple axel he’d planned. He _knows_ axels. Viktor jumps— _one two three four_. He flies through the air, feels the cool rush of it bite against his cheek, and he grins. Viktor ends in a lunge, watching his breath turn to clouds as he exhales heavily.

When he looks back at his mother, she is smiling. She is radiant.

 

* * *

 

He walks down for breakfast, and Rebeka—one of the two maids his grandmother hires to help around the house—places a hand on his shoulder before he can enter the dining room. Rebeka’s grip is firm and her hand is warm, but there is a slight downturn to her lips. It looks odd on a face that is usually smiling, and Viktor can’t help but wonder if there’s something wrong.

Then he hears the shouting. It’s a familiar voice, one that he remembers in dreams. He can never remember if they’re good or bad— _i_ _f he can remember them at all_. It’s his father, and his heart plummets. _Mama…_

He breaks free of Rebeka’s hold, ignoring her protests. “Viktor, _no_! Your _babushka_ said—”

He runs and runs and runs until he reaches the foyer. Petyr Nikiforov is standing there in a three-piece suit, looking too put-together for someone Viktor knows as a monster. He’d been too young to have known what had been going on in the kitchen seven years ago, but he’s fourteen know. He _knows_.

“Viktor.” His father says his name, and it sounds odd. Like he’s something to be bought at a grocery store rather than a son. “You’ve grown.”

It’s eerily similar to what Babushka had said upon seeing him for the first time, but Viktor doesn’t feel any warmth. He feels like he’s cattle under inspection, if anything. He might not have very many experiences with father figures, but Viktor knows for a fact that children aren’t supposed to feel like _this_.

“Are you ready to go?”

It’s only five words, but they make his heart stop—that take his entire universe and flip it on its axis. “ _What?_ ”

“We’re going home,” Petyr says simply. It isn’t that simple. St. Petersburg is not his home.

His home is here, with a mother that hugs him goodnight even though he is entirely too old for it and calls him _malen'kaya zvezda_ in soft whispers. His home is in Averyanov Manor, with Babushka and her fairy tales of wicked sisters and Koschei the Immortal . His home is _here_ , and it is not in St. Petersburg.

“He is staying, Petyr,” his mother says with a glare. “He is my son.”

“He is _my_ son too, Natalya.”

She takes a step forward, shorter than her husband but standing tall in black stilettos. “He is _my_ son, Nikiforov. Back off. _I_ raised him while you were drinking yourself to death.”

“I’ve changed! And do not forget, _dorogoy_ ,” he says, though the endearment sounds like a whip in his tongue. “You are a Nikiforov as well.”

“I am an _Averyanov_ ,” Natalya says with a lethal calm that spreads over the room like a cloud of tension. “I stopped being a Nikiforov when I stopped loving you.”

“And when did that happen, Nat? Because I have never stopped lovi—”

“I stopped loving you,” she starts, “once you threatened my son. Now get out of my house before I call the police.”

 

* * *

 

Viktor throws himself into skating. If his mother could make those sacrifices for him, he could sure as hell make sure that they wouldn’t go to waste. He’s good. He knows it too. People come in to watch practices all the time.

Which is why it’s no surprise when a little girl comes toddling in one day to watch him, a mass of dark red curls and blue eyes the color of an ocean during a storm. Viktor thinks she’s adorable enough, but he has no idea how to act around her. He’d grown up an only child, after all, and never had very many interactions with kids younger than him.

“You’re pretty when you jump,” she says earnestly. Her eyes shine brightly with an innocence that only young children seem to have. “Will you teach me how to do that?”

Viktor has no idea how to respond. “Well, do you know how to skate?”

She shakes her head _no_ , but her brilliant smile doesn’t falter in the slightest. “I’m a fast learner, though. My name is Mila!”

He skates closer to the barrier, leaning over slightly and extending a hand for her to shake. “I’m Viktor. Why don’t you get some skates on?”

 

* * *

 

Mila starts skating lessons with his mother after that day, and he knows she’s in good hands. After all, it’d been his mother to introduce him to the ice, and Viktor was doing fine. (But Viktor doesn’t want _fine_. He wants _great_.)

The girl obviously has talent, and he knows it. Mila, at a measly five years old, probably doesn’t realize that she’s a born natural at the sport. But she’s dedicated. She has an incredible drive, one that tells her to get up after she’s fallen time after time. She refuses to cry, even after she slips on the ice or makes a stupid mistake or can’t quite get a jump that Natalya has shown her multiple times.

For the first time, Viktor doesn’t feel like an only child.

 

* * *

 

He takes ballet on the side to help with his technique, though Viktor must admit he doesn’t feel particularly connected with the art. Flying through the air and landing on pointe shoes is too dissimilar for him to truly connect to dancing. It’s quite close to his beloved sport, but he doesn’t feel the biting cold slicing his cheeks and numbing his fingers. (He must admit he’s a bit of a sadist if _that_ is what he misses.)

Mila, however, takes a great liking to it, trying her best to imitate Viktor’s lithe _jeté_ and pestering him into buying a tutu for her amusement. He laughs at her when she pouts, unable to recreate his movements, and laughs some more when she gets mad at him for “making fun of her.”

This is his first season that he’ll qualify for Worlds, and he’s not going to waste time. But that doesn’t mean he can’t have fun too.

 

* * *

 

Mila’s sixth birthday is centered on princesses. Specifically, _Viktor in a princess costume_.

He takes that Saturday off from practice. (Well, not really. He still trains, though Viktor wakes up much earlier so he has more time to spend with Mila later.) Mila holds her party in the skating rink, several preschoolers gingerly stepping onto the ice and slipping onto their asses while Mila glides around with a smug look on her face.

As her birthday present, Mila has a special request in the form of a dance. A dance that not only includes skating around in a tiara but while wearing a sparkly pink dress as well. Viktor, despite his growing notoriety for a blasé attitude, can’t deny her anything and even puts on lipstick to complete the look.

 

* * *

 

Viktor perfects the quad flip, makes it _his_ quad flip. The Trophée de France looms closer, like stormclouds on the edge of a horizon, and Natalya is nothing but supportive. Babushka tries her best to come to the matches but can’t stay for very long. She always watches on the television, though, and there’s always _shashlyk_ on a plate when he comes home after a match.

 

* * *

 

While he likes the short program he’d choreographed for his upcoming Grand Prix Final, Viktor loves performing his free skate. He feels alive when he spins across the ice, more alive than he’s ever felt on solid ground, and loses himself in the music. Soft Italian singing plays from the speaker he’d brought with him to the rink, and Mila watches with rapt attention from the stands.

“What’s he saying, Viktor?” she asks, warming her hands with a to-go cup of cocoa. “What’s it called?”

_Con una spada, vorrei tagliare quelle gole che cantano d'amore. Vorrei serrare nel gelo le mani che scrivono quei versi d'ardente passione._

“Stay Close to Me.”

 

* * *

 

Viktor turns fifteen on Christmas day, but he’d already gotten the perfect present a few weeks ago. A gold medal won at the Grand Prix Final, kept shiny enough so that he could see his reflection from its place on the Achievement Wall.

(The wall opposite Viktor’s own is reserved for Mila, and despite her young age, there are already quite a few certificates and plastic trophies. Mila, however, says she won’t be satisfied until she needs _two_ walls. Viktor laughs.)

 

* * *

 

**PETRA AVERYANOVA**

**CHERISHED DAUGHTER, TREASURED WIFE, BELOVED MOTHER**

 

Viktor does not let himself cry at Babushka’s funeral, though tears line his eyes. His thoughts, however, are deafeningly loud and reverberate inside of his skull in a cacophony of screeching. _They forgot to add “grandmother.”_ Natalya’s face is impassive, though her lip sometimes quivers and her hand shakes as she pulls Viktor close. Yakov stands in the back paying his respects but not close enough to imply he had any sort of meaningful connection to the old woman.

Mila, however, is sobbing, and Viktor feels his heart break a thousand times over for the little girl. Her parents are so often gone on business trips that he thinks of her as a little sister, and it would only make sense that Mila had loved Babushka as well.

 

* * *

 

Babushka had insisted that the entire family would go to Mass every Sunday, but despite that fact, Viktor is not a very religious person. But if praying to God—or whatever name the one in the sky goes by—means that he’ll never have to see his father again, he’ll kneel in front of a crucifix and say a novena.

Friday afternoons after school in the spring are usually reserved for practice, but this Friday is a special day because Mila received full marks on her “very, very hard” spelling test. Which _obviously_ means that ice cream is necessary, Viktor’s treat.

However, the universe is a nasty, cruel thing, and somehow, Petyr Nikiforov is sitting in one of the window tables with a boy Mila’s age—probably younger, really. The scene, entirely familial and clearly a father-son bonding moment, makes Viktor stop. A strange rush of some unfamiliar feeling courses through his veins, and all of a sudden, Viktor is seeing red. He sees red, the color of the handprint on his mother’s face as she lies on the kitchen floor, and he sees silver, the color of his hair. _Of Petyr’s hair._

“Viktor?”

He looks down, and Mila’s face is innocent. She doesn’t deserve the anger running through him, and he plasters on his paparazzi smile and forces it down. This is for _Mila_ , and he will not ruin it because of his _father_.

“What are you going to get, Mia?” he asks, using a nickname that makes her beam.

“I’m thinking on getting cookie dough,” she replies, eyes wide. “It’s the _best_ flavor.”

He nods, as if contemplating her statement. “I’m going to get mint chip.”

Mila wrinkles her nose and frowns. “Mint chip is _disgusting_ , Viktor. It’s an old-people flavor!”

“I guess I’m an old man, then.”

 

* * *

 

He looks in the mirror, and Viktor sees silver hair. Viktor sees his Petyr Nikiforov.

He knows that sometimes, when his mother doesn’t know he’s looking, she looks at him with sad eyes and a sad sort of smile. Viktor knows that despite what she’d said all those years ago, she’d never truly stopped loving Petyr Nikiforov and she _hates_ herself for it. Viktor hates himself too, if only for sparking that volatile mix of emotions in Natalya.

_You must never let anyone make your choices for you._

Viktor makes his own choice when he takes a pair of scissors, walks into the bathroom, and he cuts.

 

* * *

 

“Viktor Nikiforov, rising star of Russia, has placed second in the Grand Prix Final—his second _ever_ Grand Prix Final—losing by only fractions of a point. We’re expecting great things from him. Look out, everyone. He’s definitely one to watch out for.”

 

* * *

 

Months go by, and Viktor wears himself down until he is nothing but the ice his mother loves—that _he_ loves. Second place isn’t good enough, no matter if his mother says it is. It doesn’t matter that Mila begs for every opportunity to wear it around her neck and pretend she is _Viktor Nikiforov, One of Russia’s Best_ , or that Yakov gives small smiles of pride.

It doesn’t matter, because he isn’t the best. It doesn’t matter, because he’s not worth it if he isn’t _first_.

Viktor works and works and works—sweat running down the back of his shirt and down his face, staying up late to choreograph programs and only bothering to sleep when he truly feels exhaustion creeping up his spine. He knows that it’s dangerous, pushing his body to its ultimate limits, but _he doesn’t care_.

He needs to win.

 

* * *

 

“Vitya, stop this.”

He turns, and Yakov is there. His mouth is in a thin pink line across his face, making him look grouchier than ever.

“What do you mean?” Viktor asks, though he knows _exactly_ what Coach Yakov means. Viktor hasn’t exactly been keeping himself healthy, but he is by no means out of shape The bags under his eyes are designer, after all, and he has an image to maintain.

Yakov steps closer to the barrier, leaning over so that his voice carries. “You’re not sleeping. You’re not eating. You refuse to take any breaks. _Stop this._ You’ll only hurt yourself more.”

Viktor stays silent, but his unrelenting gaze is trained on Yakov.

“Your _babushka_ would not want this,” Yakov says, arms crossed and wrinkles making his face severe in the harsh overhead lights of the rink.

At that, Viktor listens.

 

* * *

 

“Viktor, I don’t want you to go to university!” seven-year-old Mila wails, clutching his pants leg like a lifeline. Her bottom lip wobbles, and for a moment, Viktor seriously considers dropping his plans for university to stay if it means Mila will stop crying.

He hugs her. “I’m still living _here_ , Mia. And besides, I see you all the time at the rink. It’s not like I’m going to quit skating.”

“That’s good. It’d be a shame that the world won’t get to see you skate if you _did_ stop,” Natalya says from the doorway, a sad smile on her face. “ _Moya malen'kaya zvezda_ , all grown up.”

 

* * *

 

“Happy birthday, Viktor!”

“Thank you, Mil— _Is that a dog?_ What the fuck!”

“Watch your language, _malen'kaya zvezda_.”

“Sorry, Mom. Thanks, Mila! I’m going to name you Makkachin.”

 

* * *

 

Two years pass, and nineteen-year-old Viktor gets a silver again at the Grand Prix Final, the first since his second championship. He hates himself for it. He hates the color silver and the pain that it brings. (The name _Petyr_ rings in his head like a warning.)

Natalya says that it’s okay to lose because that’s what motivates people to try harder, but Viktor beats himself up over it. He watches the video, and every glaringly obvious technical mistake is another stab in his weakening ego. (His footwork entering the quad Salchow is sloppy, and it messes him up, even if he _does_ land perfectly. He’s practically certain that this is what costs him first place.)

Mila saves up what little allowance she has and buys him an ice cream—mint chip. It makes him feel worse, knowing that he’s so terrible that a nine-year-old girl feels _pity_ for him. He’s supposed to be one of the best skaters in Russia. One of the best in the _world_ , according to the ISU statistics.

But the best aren’t supposed to feel this way. The best aren’t meant to have their lungs collapsing in on their chest, and a nagging voice in the back of their mind saying, _You aren’t good enough and you never will be._ It’s stupid, really, because he’s won the Grand Prix before and there’s no one stopping him from doing it again and again and again except for one person. And that one person just so happens to be Viktor Nikiforov.

 

* * *

 

Viktor and Mila take the Saturday off, and it’s their first break in months. Viktor is aiming to win the Grand Prix again. He’s twenty-one now, and he _will_ win. He won’t accept anything less than that. Mila, on the other hand, is almost eligible for the Junior Grand Prix and remains a constant bundle of nerves and excitement at all times. Her practice schedule is so rigorous that it almost rivals Viktor’s.

A break is thoroughly needed.

They skate lazily around the rink, once and then another time for good measure. It’s obvious that they have more balance than everyone in the square combined, but for the time being Viktor and Mila are content with joking around. Multiple boys wander towards Mila, trying their best to catch her eye, and Viktor isn’t sure if she truly is this oblivious or simply doesn’t want the attention as she brushes off the third one with a nonchalant yet not unkind phrase.

Later, they have dinner together with Natalya in the large Averyanov Manor, and Viktor is happy. He wishes he could freeze this moment in time and live in it forever.

 

* * *

 

“Your mom tried to give me the sex talk today.”

Viktor stops, pencil hovering above the sketchbook but not quite touching paper. He’s in the process of coming up with a new short program, but this has taken over any thoughts. “ _What?_ ”

“Your mom tried to give me the sex talk today,” Mila repeats, unceremoniously dropping herself onto Viktor’s bed with a huff. “It was…”

“Listen, Mila,” Viktor turns to face her. “I know we’re like brother and sister and all of that, but this is really—”

“The wrong one,” Mila finishes. She’s staring at the ceiling with a blank look, and her lip is quivering. “Viktor, I’m going to tell you something, and you have to promise not to say anything until I’m done. And you can’t hate me after I tell you either, okay?”

He takes a good look at her face, at how scared and nervous and _oh-so_ lonely she looks. “Mia, I could never hate you.”

Mila sits up, pulling her legs up to her chest and resting her chin on her knees. “Viktor, I’m gay.”

 

* * *

 

_You are now texting_ **cookie_dough** _as_ **viktoraveryanov** _._

**viktoraveryanov:** does this mean i get to make you rainbow cookies now

**viktoraveryanov:** ones with little pride flags in icing

**cookie_dough:** ??? no of course not

**cookie_dough:** we both kno u cant bake lololol

**cookie_dough:** also hey look at this meme i found

**cookie_dough:** img_1927.jpeg

**viktoraveryanov:** thats literally a picture someone took of me at my first grand prix

**viktoraveryanov:** wow screw you mila

 

* * *

 

Viktor doesn’t know very much about Yakov’s new protégé, only that he’s much too stubborn for his own good. And, according to Mila, “short as fuck.” (He’d reprimanded her for the use of the expletive but secretly laughed once she was out of hearing range.)

It’s a practice match and Viktor needs the time to get ready, but soft piano music from the rink calls him out. He doesn’t know why, only that a whizz of dark blue with pale yellow hair twirls in the air in a quad Salchow. Viktor smiles. He has to admit it’s good—for a kid.

“I’ve told you time and time again,” Yakov says, “Quads are off-limits. Your body is still developing. And if you can’t follow orders, just _quit_!”

Viktor starts clapping with a slight laugh. “You should praise him more, Yakov.”

“Step out of it, Vitya,” Yakov says.

He leans on the railing, closer to the two, and lets his voice carry throughout the otherwise empty rink. “I used to get scolded for doing that too, you know. You can win—even without quads.” At the boy’s astonished face, Viktor adds, “I’d bet money on it. You can win at Junior Worlds.”

The boy stands. “If I _do_ win, choreograph a program for me. Promise me!”

Viktor laughs and holds out a hand for him to shake “Alright then. I promise. After you win, come see me.”

 

* * *

 

Natalya, like she’d done with Mila, adopts Yuri Plisetsky into their little family without complaint. For Viktor’s mother, it doesn’t matter that taking in Yuri isn’t like what she’d done for Mila—Yuri has a home to go to at night, has someone that would care if he went missing one night. It’s exactly the same, because they’re three kids who care for the ice more than they’ve ever cared about their own wellbeing.

Yuri goes with them when they travel for Mila’s junior debut. Naturally, he’s mumbling short prayers under his breath for Mila’s win, and Viktor can’t help the smile that spreads on his face. He’d never thought that Yuri would be Catholic, but it fits the boy in the strange way that the sun can shine on a snowy day.

The four of them—Yakov, Natalya, Yuri, and Viktor—hold their breath as Mila flies through the air in a triple Lutz.

(They shouldn’t have been worried. Mila places first, and the Italian skater Sara Crispino takes second.)

 

* * *

 

“Viktor Nikiforov, twenty-six years old, astounds the crowd with a _flawless_ short program and wins his fifth Grand Prix Final in a row!”

 

* * *

 

Banquets after the Grand Prix are always boring and stuffy, and the only positive side is that Viktor gets to see Christophe—one of the only friends he’s made over his skating career. They don’t expect very much of each other, just a birthday greeting once a year and a few other acknowledgements over the year between seeing each other again, and Viktor truly appreciates that. He barely has enough time for his mother, and if he had to genuinely work to keep a friendship alive, Viktor might have collapsed. (However, it’s not to say that he doesn’t treasure Christophe, because he does.)

A loud commotion catches his eye, and all Viktor can see when he turns around are brown eyes and black hair. “ _Hello. My name is Katsuki Yuuri. You’re Viktor Nikiforov._ ”

Viktor laughs, true and free. “Hi.”

(Moments later, he pulls out his phone to capture several photos of Yuuri dancing and several videos of Yura joining in, challenging the older man to a dance-off. While Yuri sleeps, Viktor breaks into the boy’s phone and sends himself his favorite pictures and videos of the night.) (To this day, Viktor still doesn’t have a clue how the pole got into the banquet hall.) (He also doesn’t have a clue that there are _several_ pictures of him dancing with a near-shirtless Yuuri Katsuki on Phichit Chualanont’s phone, halfway across the world.)

(It doesn’t truly _click_ that Viktor is already seventeen miles past “love.”)

 

* * *

 

Viktor shouldn’t be feeling like this—like his motivation is sand slipping through his fingers and skating is more of a job than a passion. Make no mistake, he still loves the ice. He loves the ice, because it gave him his _family_. The ice gave him Mila and Yura and Yakov. The ice makes his mother smile. The ice had been one of the few things that had made Babushka proud when she was alive.

But the ice is no longer his friend. It is what ice is to _everyone else_. It is no longer beautiful in the way the stars are beautiful, glittering and endless, but rather in the way that ephemeral things are beautiful for short bursts of time. It is fading and out of reach, and he doesn’t feel the warmth of it when he glides across.

The ice has abandoned him and taken Viktor’s inspiration with it. (The ice has abandoned him like his father has.)

 

* * *

 

He sits on his couch, Makkachin curled up near his feet in a happy ball of fur. Viktor leans his head onto his fingers, eyes trained on the screen. His phone is in his hand, and he lazily scrolls through some news feed when he gets an urgent text from Mila.

 

**cookie_dough:** have you seen this??? [link]

 

Viktor clicks it. Knowing Mila, he fully expects it to be some sort of dubstep remix of “Wake Me Up” and is pleasantly surprised to find the YouTube title as something entirely unrelated. “カツキゆうりスケートは私の近くにいるヴィクトル・ニキフォロフフリースケート | Katsuki Yuuri Skates Stay Close To Me Viktor Nikiforov Free Skate.”

Intrigued, he presses play. The figure on screen moves with obvious grace, and it would be an insult if Viktor denied him that. The spins he does are impeccable, and his footwork is extraordinary. A face comes into focus, and his heart stops. Viktor _knows_ that face. He knows that face, because that face had made him smile— _truly smile_ —for the first time in a long time, and Viktor had lost all hope of finding the face again after it disappeared after that night. He knows that face, because it belonged to a man who had pole-danced with Christophe and danced “Stay Close to Me” with Viktor.

He knows that face, because it belongs to Katsuki Yuuri.

Viktor stands and packs his bags. He grabs his phone and dials Yakov. “I’m going to Japan.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> visit me on tumblr!! [adrinettes](http://adrinettes.tumblr.com/)


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